The Broken Path
by OfLoveAndChocolate
Summary: The trio is in the midst of battle but Hermione has lost her Gryffindor bravery. Fear and guilt push her down an unintended path, towards a man meant to die. Dumbledore left more than horcrux hunting for the broken pair. M for later chs. SS/HG
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**: Hello and welcome to my first SS/HG fanfic! It is a pairing I have truly come to love, despite the misunderstanding it often seems to encounter. (My husband still doesn't get how they could ever have a legit relationship.) But, I've decided to take on this story anyway because I love both of these characters and I believe, if put on a different path, they may have found love with eachother as well._

_This story will be a slow burner, requiring some extra patience. Our heroes have a few gaps to jump and I don't realistically see some of those obstacles dissolving away easily._

_My greatest wish is to stick to HP canon, and keep everyone in character. PLEASE tell me if you think I am deviating substantially... or even unsubstantially. Please, just review in general :)_

_So stick with me and we'll navigate this new path together - following behind a smiling Hermione and her smirking Professor as they walk hand-in-hand._

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing within the Harry Potter universe. I can only bow down before the great JKR and thank her for all she has created. Her work continues to captivate me._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Hermione Granger would never admit that she was severely claustrophobic. It was a secret weakness she had managed to hide over her years at Hogwarts, although she had a sneaking suspicion Harry somehow knew. Being squeezed together in tight spaces on too many dangerous adventures was probably her undoing. (At least he was kind enough to never point out the cowardliness in his fellow Gryffindor.) Ron might have also noticed her fear if he wasn't as equally terrified in those situations...

Or maybe Harry had only just recently found out? He seemed to be extrasensory nowadays, picking up on the smallest flinch or change in breath. But in truth, evading Death Eaters and snatchers had a way of making all three of them extremely vigilant, if not completely paranoid at times… A sharper awareness of surroundings and body language was one of horcrux-hunting's very few perks.

And that was the irony of Hermione's present situation. After everything they had been through over the past few months - running through the wilderness, only a whisper away from death at times - surely a tight, underground tunnel was the _least_ dangerous obstacle they had encountered. _Be a Gryffindor._ _Breathe, Hermione, just breathe. _But at this moment, as she blindly crawled on all fours besides Ron and Harry, she couldn't help the shaking – couldn't help the sinking feeling that she was trapped with no means of escape.

She tried to tell herself it was only the physical imprisonment of the moist earth walls and the darkness that was constricting her, but her deeper conscience knew it was much more complicated and sickening. _It's just a tunnel…oh, but the blood… Keep moving._ _You already crawled through once._ The combination of her stabbing regret and the oppressive confinement was quickly eroding her resolve.

The minor rustle of Ron's arm against her side seemed to compress the space even more. She struggled for breath at the thought of suffocating – of dying a deserving death in the bowels of the earth. _The blood… those slitted eyes… the snake._

Ron must have noticed her cringe. He stilled and Hermione felt his breath huff over her face.

"You OK, Mione?"

She couldn't stop moving. She had to keep going. _You just… ran away… Be a Gryffindor! _How could the world spin when everything was darkness?

Ron gently tugged on the hem of her shirt. She guessed Harry had stopped moving too, because she could only hear her own ragged breath now. He confirmed her thoughts by turning to face them both, wand illuminating his face.

"What's wrong?" Harry said. His voice was urgent, almost clipped.

If those two words were said any differently she may have pressed on - vomited somewhere on the tunnel floor, but pressed on. She would have made it to the whomping willow entrance and embraced the cool evening air, even with the pollution of smoke and death.

However, her desperate mind found no compassion in Harry's question and those two words were enough to send her into hysteria.

"_What's wrong?_ What's wrong?" she panted wildly. "I don't know about you Harry, but _maybe_ I just watched Voldemort murder Professor Snape!" She hated the weak twist in her voice.

"Hermione…" Ron breathed beside her. His hand slid over her back in comfort. She shrugged away from his constricting touch and continued.

"_Maybe_ we didn't even so much as FLINCH towards our wands to save him? _Maybe_ we just watched him die… like-like _children_… after all we've been through, all we've fought through, we just _watched_!" She couldn't prevent a low sob from exiting her throat.

Harry softened slightly. "There was nothing we could do Hermione. Snape was a powerful wizard and even he couldn't defend himself. There was no chance for him… Voldemort has the Elder wand, and we can't touch him until we destroy the last horcruxes… We need to get back to the castle." He reached out across the dark narrow space to grasp some part of her. His hand found her frizzled hair, patting it gently. She scrubbed tears from her cheeks.

She hated the level reasoning in Harry's voice because it was conflicting with her own deeper turmoil.

How could everyone continue to fight? How could the Weasleys keep fighting? How could they not fall down in defeat from the death of their son? Twist and scream on the ground for it. Fred's death was enough to bring her to her own knees… How could she be so weak, at the moment she was needed the very most? _Harry and Ron need you… the horcruxes… destroy them. Be a Gryffindor._

So many stinging questions before her, but most centered on a person she had never even considered a friend - the murdered man.

In the darkness, with nothing else to look at, it was so easy for her mind to flash images of his ragged face, bloodied and torn - his body, crumpled and broken down so that the illustriousness of his posture was lost and defeated. _Defeat_. In the face of such a formidable man, that expression was almost crueler than the manner of his death. _The snake… the fangs… the blood_. She felt herself cringe again.

Why was she crying for a man she hardly knew? _He was murdered in front of me…_ Why was she so impossibly weighted by the death of a Professor who outwardly despised her, who loathed her mere presence in his classroom? _No one deserves that horror…_ Why, in the midst of a battle where her friends and peers were sacrificing their lives for the Light, could her mind only keep replaying the death of Severus Snape? _I don't know…_

Someone was shaking her arm now. _Too much contact. Let go of me._

"Mione? Harry's right, we need to go." There was tender pleading in Ron's voice.

She shrugged away again. It was difficult to do in the tight space but she scooted as far from Ron as possibly, resting her shaking frame against the crumbling wall. Roots were tangling in her hair as wet clods of dirt fell on her body. The tunnel was too small and narrow to hide in, though she wished she could. She didn't want to be touched anymore. She didn't want to move. _I could stay here… I deserve this pain… _

A deeper, prouder voice shook her. _NO_, _you need to be a Gryffindor! Your friends need more from you. _

"I – I _can't_." she whispered weakly. She knew Harry and Ron were saying something, but she couldn't hear it over her damn Gryffindor conscience – pushing her to bravery that she was sure she no longer possessed. How could she be brave now? What if she had to watch someone else be murdered? A real friend? Someone she _loved_? She couldn't endure it. She was sure it would snap her and leave her a broken sobbing heap on the battlefield.

She leaned forward to rest her forehead in her hands. It was almost better not to move now, except for the flashbacks. She discovered that if she massaged her palms into her eyelids the images almost ceased. They were at least blurred. _Less like a dying Snape… he could be sleeping. _Yes, that was slightly better. And if she rocked her thin body a little she could almost imagine a spacious castle room, a place that she could sprawl out in without feeling trapped. There were books scattered around her, the smell of parchment. Its familiarity was lovely... But the present reality of sodden earth pressing against the backs of her hands altered the dream… _Where else could I be?_ …A forest, yes. That worked. She was in a wide open forest, with a damp mossy floor and emerald green foliage. Sunlight scattered through gaps in the canopy… She could run through the forest if she wanted, because she was free in this space. She could run fast and far until her lungs couldn't gulp any more of the precious open air. Her skin was dewy with perspiration… And Professor Snape was standing as still as the tree trunks surrounding him, and his face no longer looked pained.

In the distance she heard voices again. This time they were arguing.

"…afraid of close spaces-"

"…but, I'm _not_ dragging-"

"…is no time! Only an hour..."

"NO! I won't do-"

"…she can't, we need to go…"

Then hands were on her, dragging her away from her forest dream. The hands felt controlling. Someone was pulling her. _No, no, no, no! Don't touch me! I won't go!_

"We can't slow down, Hermione. We don't have much time before Voldemort starts the battle again… Do you have any calming draught left? It will help you through this." Harry's voice sounded compassionate but she could still feel the frustration behind his words. It was his hands pulling on her now. She wasn't sure if she preferred the tentative touch of Ron over Harry's deliberate hold, but she was sure that she would _not_ be dragged away from this new sliver of peace her mind was creating… her forest refuge.

Faintly, she felt the tug of magic against her chest again, right where the small crystal vial rested against her sternum – the same place she used to keep the guarded time-turner. The intrigue of that vial was not enough to pull her away from the present madness.

"NO!" she screeched, "We ran out _weeks_ ago… Let go! Don't _touch_ me!" Her screams sounded muffled and faded in the enclosed space. She wanted them to reverberate to emphasize her protests, not die away in the dirt.

Ron was close again and near desperation. "Please, Mione, please. We need you. Let us help you. We'll take care of you. We'll get you out of here!"

His words were perfect. They could have saved her if she wasn't already panicking. _They need you… Be a Gryffindor!_ She didn't listen, she couldn't bring herself to.

Fear was taking over logic and her actions didn't feel like they were hers to control anymore. She realized she was swatting at the hands clutching her, not caring who she hit as long as she could escape their grasp. Someone caught a blow to the nose and grunted.

"Oww! Hermione – stop, we're only trying to help you!" Harry growled from slightly farther away.

Ron must be the one holding her legs now. _Too much… don't trap me_. Her inner lioness was cornered, snarling with fearful rage.

"Let… me… go!" she gasped. Ron held fast, but in the awkward, tight space he couldn't maintain his grip. With a wild twist of her body she felt moist earth grinding into the fabric of her clothes before she wriggled away from his hold.

The momentary disorientation betrayed her as she tried to scramble farther away. She bumped into another earthen wall, further matting her hair, and with a trembling hand traced its surface to find a flat plane for reference. She could hear Harry and Ron grumbling off to her far right but she had no idea where the path to her left led. _To open air or back to blood? Which way is this?_ In the fraction of time it took to decide, she realized either end result was better than being held tightly by someone, by being dragged along this tunnel. She had some freedom this way. She was less constricted. She could get out. _Breathe... NO, stop! Be a Gryffindor! …They will help you! _

There was a flash of something red compacting the wall to her right. It brightened the tunnel long enough for the two men to flare into reality again. For that brief moment she remembered them and exhaled – they only looked concerned for her. _They want to help you! Stop you coward!_

"Stupefy!" Another spell from Harry flew past her by mere inches. _But wait,_ _are they really casting spells at me! _She was somehow, in a near-maternal sense, less angry that they were trying to immobilize her and more furious that their spells were _missing_ her. They were in the midst of the final battle, possibly the most testing magical trial they would ever experience, but they still couldn't hit a terrified girl, only meters away in an enclosed tunnel?

However, fear quickly overtook her anger. _What if they do hit me? And I can't breathe, and I'm dragged along… motionless?_ It consumed her very being and transformed any hopes of bravery into a desperate, cowardly hope for escape. Their voices were so close behind her. Were they shouting at each other or yelling for her? It almost sounded like a struggle. She wished she couldn't hear them because she might have been able to stop crawling if they were silent.

They were her friends - the last people who would ever hurt her - so why was she so terrified? _Have to get away… need to stop them! …NO, stay with them!_ The safety that magic offered won the inner battle. She tugged her wand free from its pocket and paused for a moment, channeling all of the calmness she could manage. She whispered the word, "_Protego_", and to her relief a bluish bubble formed across the tunnel behind her. It glowed only faintly but she was confident it would hold for a least a few minutes.

Breathing came easier now but there was still the terror of being trapped in the tight space… with visions of a dying Professor Snape. It was all that fueled her. She tore through the bulk of the tunnel in only a few minutes. Resting briefly, she realized the voices behind her had dulled to a low murmur. _Yes! They won't trap you… you can move… you'll be free. _

And then there was light, just a faint glow, not even enough to make out the hands before her face yet, but it was there and was increasing in its dull yellowed intensity. And there was something else… _Music?_ No, it was too singular to be a combination of instruments, but there was a melody and a mixture of sounds that were altogether disturbing yet beautiful at the same time.

Her crawling pace increased again and the noise was transforming from a sickening-sweet, high-pitched song to a lower, almost mournful call. It was beginning to shake through every part of her - like it was shaking her own beating heart. A hand involuntarily came up to hold her chest, to make sure it would not beat away with the vibrations. She clutched at the small vial through her shirt. _What is that noise? …danger… but so close to open air! _

Her hopes fell further.

The yellow light was bright enough to recognize now – clearly not the deep blue glow of night blanketing the castle grounds and its whomping willow. _Oh no_… _the blood…_ _to the left was the blood._

Claustrophobia had driven her to confront the new terror. She realized she wasn't really ready for this. She wasn't ready to reenter the shrieking shack. She wasn't ready to reconsider the evidence of her unforgivable inaction.

She wasn't ready to see Professor Snape again.

It was becoming more evident that there could also be new danger beyond the tunnel entrance. The vibrations were deepening. _What is making that noise?_

She had finally reached the end and sat back on her heals, quietly listening in the last bit of shadow which concealed her. The thundering song continued on. Although it had significantly slowed, her chest still felt like it might shake away from her body.

Over a cacophony of echoing, she discerned that the song seemed to be coming from a single location. _A single creature?_ Her sense of curiosity was resurfacing despite her best efforts to remain hidden and safe. Books, scrolls and pages flashed through her mind – a virtual catalogue of information - searching for the answer to this rumbling question.

The near-removal from the tunnel's confinement awakened her physical senses as well. A sharp pain was flickering over her left knee as it pressed against the tunnel floor. Several finger nails felt ragged - at least one was surely bleeding. She winced as she brushed the nail bed with a tentative finger, extracting red liquid. It dripped down her hand, mixing with the grime coating the digit. _Dirty blood… mudblood… _It was impossible to suppress seven years of pureblood ridicule – the word flashed before her automatically. She imagined Bellatrix smiling wickedly at the sight of her blood and the dirt mixing… The carving on her forearm throbbed in deeper memory… _Push it away!_ _Not now…_

Her academic mind was still calculating despite all the pain. But no explanation for the sound she was hearing could possibly fit. (Unless a Chinese Fireball in search of a mate had somehow managed to squeeze into the shack's lower floor.) She needed to _see_ the unknown danger to understand it.

With shaking movements, she inched towards the very end of the tunnel. The darkness covering her body slid away and left her feeling completely exposed in the dim lightening. She steadied her wand hand. If the noisy person, or _creature_, so much as glanced in her direction she would be completely exposed to their eyes.

She didn't want to look, dreaded it almost more than the dark tunnel behind her. _Snape was over there… I will see him again… the blood_. The reverberations continued without interruption as her face peaked ever-so-slowly around the corner.

The gasp was too loud, she couldn't suppress it, even as her hand flew to her mouth hoping she could take it back. The thundering song stopped instantly.

A creature was hunched over the crumpled, shadowed form of Professor Snape, its scarlet plumage just a shade brighter than the pool of blood. _More blood than when we left…_ _oh no…_ Thick talons of gold were grasping onto one of Snape's thighs. The pressure looked painful. _Of course, he can't feel that..._ _will never feel again. _The bulk of the creature shifted heavily on its human perch while raising its ruffled neck to inspect the noise coming from Hermione's direction. A beady, scrutinizing eye immediately locked with her own awestruck ones.

Tears were slipping from that eye… beautiful, shimmering tears of salvation. Hermione's heart sang with understanding, both amazed and grateful. The terror vanished.

"_Fawkes?"_ She whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N**: I can't express how incredibly pleased I was to receive all of the early story alerts and reviews. Writing induced warm n' fuzzies are the best :) Please keep them coming and enjoy... if you aren't enjoying, I heartily encourage critisism as well._

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Something was building within Hermione. The feeling was completely unnatural. It bordered on traitorous… _No, it IS traitorous… _The lioness growled, finally set free from the tunnel's confinement.

It was one thing to morn the death of Professor Snape and to hate herself for not acting to prevent his murder, it was another thing to be _elated_ for his possible survival… for the survival of a Death Eater… for the man who murdered Dumbledore.

But the feelings overtook her before she could logically sort through them, or at the very least, make excuses for them. There was a flooding deluge of relief, swelling up from the deepest confines of her heart. _So much blood… but he may be… alive. _

She could reconcile her traitorous emotions later – if she managed to survive.

Fawkes had hopped off of Professor Snape and into the puddle of blood extending beyond his body. The bird's wings flapped, feathers dipping in the redness, before it took to the air and swooped across the room. It landed heavily in a cloud of dust, resting on a shaggy wingback chair. The delicate feathers around its eyes were soaked. _How many tears have you cried for him?, _she wondered.

With reluctance, she glanced back to the shadow of her unmoving Professor. Not wanting to look any farther yet, she focused numbly on his boots.

The phoenix had cried over him – shed its precious tears for him. There was therefore a possibility, and with possibility came hope. Hope for his survival, and someday, hope for the undeserving absolution of her soul. _What a selfish notion._

There were also crashing waves of doubt.

Was it truly possible? Had Fawkes come in time to save him? Had those tears made his wounds close over like the one on Harry's arm had? _Basilisk be damned._ She remembered tracing the faint scar that had formed on her friend – the second physical reminder of his ties to Voldemort. That seemed so long ago now…

The horrendous memory of Snape's murder formed behind her eyelids again. She was somewhat relieved that, out of the compressing darkness, she had more control and could fast-forward to the end… _his_ end – past the pale serpentine face and the striking snake.

She had stood over Professor Snape with Harry and Ron. She had watched those dark eyes pool over to complete blackness. The pitch coal orbs had stared into the glassy greenness of Harry's. The last glimmer of life had vanished. She had watched it slip away as the blood continued to slip away from his body.

_The phoenix tears would be useless._

A whisper of logic countered that thought. _But Fawkes is not called to help the dead. _She glanced at the bird again, in confusion.

Her mind couldn't reconcile that fact. She was _sure _she had watched him die. There were two other witnesses to substantiate the claim. Guilt coursed through her as she remembered Ron and Harry, most likely searching the castle _without_ her now. How much time had passed? Had the battle resumed? Her head throbbed as she shook away those images.

And there was something else that was hard to overlook – another fact that would keep Fawkes from being called. She reverted to her second year, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, focusing in on the pertinent dialogue – the only meaningful information she could ever recall learning about the crimson bird _outside_ of a book.

"_Fawkes was brilliant! I mean – Riddle laughed at what Dumbledore sent me! And he forgot. He just forgot… the darkest wizard of all time forgot that phoenix tears have healing powers? I shouldn't be alive, but that bird… he was just, brilliant."_

_Ron's nose was scrunched in confusion. "I trust Dumbledore, but bloody hell Harry, he could've sent you something better than a bird – healing tears or not. The sword, yeah, but a bird?"_

_Hermione's younger self piped up against Ron's ignorance. "It's not just any bird, Ronald. Dumbledore had good reason to send Fawkes. A phoenix is a valuable ally against a basilisk due to the antidotal powers of their tears AND due to their ferocity in battle. They have been known to gouge out the eyes of dragons much larger than a basilisk."_

_Ron grumbled. "It's still just a bloody bird…"_

_Harry had turned serious. He sat at the edge of a chair, fingers entwined as he stared at a point on the floor. _

"_No, Fawkes was the best weapon I had… but Dumbledore didn't send him to me." Hermione and Ron exchanged a brief glance of confusion as Harry continued. "Dumbledore said that Fawkes came to me because of my own actions, because of my loyalty to him – to Dumbledore I mean. Fawkes came to me because I defended Dumbledore."_

Hermione pulled away from the recollection. Her eyes refocused on the crumpled pile of black robes before her. How could Fawkes come to Professor Snape's aid? He had… _murdered_ the former headmaster. Surely the phoenix recognized Snape as his master's greatest enemy, aside from Voldemort of course. What true loyalty had Snape ever possibly given to Dumbledore? Unless, someone else…

She quickly spun around the room. The evening starlight filtering through a discolored window pane was insufficient. _"Lumos",_ she mouthed. Her wand tip glowed, searching the darker corners for anyone else present. Fawkes ruffled his feathers in near-indignation as the blue light swept over his form. She decidedly looked past Professor Snape's face for the moment. The beat of her heart then resumed normalcy. _No one here… but who called you, Fawkes?_ Her lips formed the question, but couldn't speak it. The silence hovering over the room felt dangerous, as if it was something not to be broken.

Her gaze rested on his boots again. She had the rational answer, but could not yet accept it. _Fawkes isn't called to traitors… he is only called by those faithful to Dumbledore… No one else is here._

Professor Snape, in some way… had been loyal. It was still more of a question than a statement in her consciousness, but for the time being, it was her only explanation.

_Still… is he even… alive?_

She realized she was gripping her wand too tightly and chastised herself. _Breathe! No more of this cowardice!_

She sucked in a short gulp of air, raised her glowing wand again, and pulled her eyes upward to take in the man's form.

He was still in the same position, slumped weakly against the wall, but his robes appeared darker from the soaked up blood_._ She didn't think the man's exterior could ever appear any blacker, but now he seemed to be clothed in night itself.

His complexion, or lack thereof, further added to the startling effect. The wan pallor of his face had been completely flushed away. What little color had once been present in those angular cheeks was replaced by a ghostly vision of white._ The color… his blood, it's on the floor._

And he was so… _different_. The deep frown lines had relaxed away. He was smooth, and peaceful, and porcelain white. That stark contrast, of ashen skin to dark robes, was what captivated Hermione most… it was incredibly… _distinct_ – like comparing the shades of a unicorn to those of Voldemort's blackened soul.

But no, distinct was not the right word… Only seconds elapsed while her unabashed Gryffindor sincerity – coupled with years of exacting, detailed essay writing (often for the Potions Professor himself) – declared that _"striking"_ was a more appropriate term. The word settled unpleasantly. She wasn't comfortable with the admission; no matter how much her academic mind declared it as a more accurate descriptor of his current appearance. _Professor Snape, striking? …what would Ron and Harry say?_

However, in a simple, detached, clinical way, _yes,_ she had to admit that he was more… _appealing_ now in death than she ever imagined possible during his caustic, unapproachable life.

Of course, she might not have felt that way if his neck was still ragged and gushing. A deep exhale had rushed out of her from that relief. The phoenix tears _had_ sealed the snake's savage work. Healing scars, a fresh shade of pink, peeked through his frock coat's shredded collar.

"_You are amazing Fawkes…"_ she breathed without looking back at the bird.

A silent whisper of gratitude also went out to Harry. He had the decency to close their Professor's eyes before leaving the shack. It may have been too much to look into that blank, onyx stare again. The blood puddle was unnerving enough.

The lioness snarled her impatience._ Is he alive? Get on with it already!_

Madam Pomfrey would have cast a diagnostics charm to know if the man was deceased, but Hermione Granger was born a muggle. And in her growing apprehension, those habitual tendencies took over.

She stepped into the lake of blood – grimacing at its viscosity – crouched down next to her Potions Professor, and extended two shaking fingers towards his neck, towards the hope of a pulse.

Afraid beyond reason, she let her finger tips make contact with the newly formed scars, only to immediately jerk them away. She hissed with pain. His skin was… _hot_. Burning hot. And upon closer inspection, he was perspiring. _How did I not notice before?_ Maybe she had assumed the wetness to be the remnants of Fawkes's tears? But now the beading sweat along his brow was undeniable. It snaked down him temples._ The dead don't perspire or hold fevers…_

Helplessness mixed with the same treacherous fit of elation overtook her. _He is alive… but barely._

Her healing skills were efficient yet only basic. _Horribly basic_, she admitted with much distaste. Hermione Granger was not one to be inexperienced, but in her hasty pre-escape packing, she regretfully forgot to grab a comprehensive healing text. It was a subject of study she had pushed aside for some time; devoting her mind elsewhere, and always reasoning that more practiced healers would be around when serious help was needed. Not taking up the subject earlier – before being forced into a dangerous, injury-provoking hunt for horcruxes – was possibly her greatest mistake thus far.

So this kind of fever, most likely venom induced, was a severe problem. Even worse, she remembered that this was_ the _snake.

The details of Mr. Weasley's recovery from his own attack in the depths of the Ministry were fuzzy at best. She had been too worried for the man's survival and Ron's comfort to take note on the medicinal spells used at the time. She just remembered his recuperation being long, drawn out and complicated. The _venom _was complicated.

It was probably still coursing through her Professor. _Was there more venom than blood?_ She didn't have any idea how to safely extract it without opening new wounds. And the wrong usage of healing spells could often do more harm than good… Lockhart was example enough. Her confidence waned. In his delicate state, could she live with herself if while striving to save him she actually caused his… demise? _But inaction could bring the same fate._

Snape's pale face offered no alternate answer_. Is he really on the edge of death?_ He surely looked the part. There couldn't be much more time. She desperately wished for someone else, a second opinion as it were. To again hold the man's life in her hands was a debilitating burden.

A dark whisper prodded. _You don't have to save the Death Eater… You just watched him slip away before… and does he even deserve life?_ _Just leave and go help your friends…_ The whisper was too much like a hiss. The evil of that sentiment forced her head to shake in disagreement.

The inner lioness bit back. _SAVE HIM! You do not have the right to choose his time of passing! It is your Gryffindor duty to help… You have the knowledge, now think._

Another deluge of academic information flowed forth. A spark of an idea formed, a very basic idea, but a safer start none the less.

She was then desperately reaching into her sequined bag. Such a lifeline, she often clung to the bag as a source of comfort – holding it to her heart in sleep. It became her own personal worry stone.

Her entire right arm disappeared into its depths. She panted, waving the arm wildly in her search.

"_Foolish girl. You have a wand." _

She whipped her face around to meet Professor Snape's white mask again, nearly falling over into blood as the sneering words penetrated her mind. But he was still motionless… still near death.

_I'm completely mental… conjuring insults from a dying man._

How could he still be irritating in such a state?

"_Accio_ potions kit!" she breathed harshly. The leather case smacked against her extended hand, glass contents tinkling.

Still beyond touching the pooled blood, she turned back to her Professor, using his thigh as a makeshift table. The small leather kit carried its own undetectable extension charm. Inside were hundreds of tiny, neatly labeled vials, alphabetically indexed into rows which slid backwards to rotate the next, lower drawer of vials into view. The stockpile had taken her quite sometime to amass. Although now, the contents were running pitifully low.

She quickly flipped counterclockwise, past the c's, silently admonishing Harry for thinking they had even a drop of calming draught left. Of course, he wouldn't realize that she had been slipping small doses of the potion into _his_ food and drink over their time on the run. It always seemed like he needed it more than she or Ron did.

_B's, yes… _Her fingers rattled over the vials, finally snatching up the one she needed… the one _he_ obviously needed.

Her bold, precise scroll read: **Blood-Replenishing Potion.**

_Empty._

So were the next two identical vials.

Only a thin film of residue remained in each. When she had used the very last of their contents, she had no idea.

The inner lioness roared.

Without a second thought, she gave into the roar. The last vial in her grasp made contact with the floor and exploded, its shards skittering across the hardwood. Fawkes beat his wings in alarm.

Adding further frustration, she realized that the little, irritating tug of magic was pulling her again, right at her sternum where the crystal vial rested. Dumbledore's last _damn_ bequeath… completely worthless… just another annoyingly vague clue in their horcrux hunt. At least, that was her conclusion at present.

She couldn't indulge that curious magic pull right now. She had to do something_ useful_.

_Need more time…_ Another spark of an idea and she was searching again, flying past the f's, past the k's, the m's, then onto the p's. Surely they at _least_ had…

None… not even a drop. Six vials this time. All empty.

Just like the previous potion, the last, infuriatingly empty vial of Pepper-Up met the same shattered fate. Fawkes rumbled in annoyance, the golden feathers on his crown standing at attention.

_One last healing potion_. She rotated a shelf down and snatched up a more valuable draught. So valuable, that she only had the single vial.

_All used…_ her mind reminded her begrudgingly. She remembered healing Luna's injuries after escaping Malfoy Manor. The girl had received the last precious drops. The Rejuvenation Elixir was gone.

_What else? Anything that would help… _

…The dankness of a dungeon. First year potions class drifted into clarity.

A mildly ironic idea emerged. She wasn't one to laugh while panicking, but how amusing would it be…

It was ridiculous really. If Professor Snape was to be revived by something as simple, with no advanced skill required – a tool used by Harry, no less. Even worse to be saved by something the _"chosen one"_ would use... She could picture the scowl already.

_Do I even have one anymore?_ She couldn't remember.

Her wand dipped into the sequined life-line again.

"_Accio_ bezoar!"

Nothing. Not even a shuffle inside the depths of the bag. She didn't feel the customary pull in the spell. The bezoar wasn't stuck or held back. There simply was _no_ bezoar to summon.

Her chest was heaving as she realized she was no longer equipped to heal even the smallest of injuries with her potions kit. Salty tears were threatening her cheeks. How could she possibly fix _this_… fix _him_?

A quick glance back at Professor Snape did nothing to either encourage or discourage. He looked the same. _At least he's still sweating._ She could feel the heat rolling off of his thin frame.

Turning back to the potions kit, she pushed away a strand of bushy hair with the back of a dirty hand – the hand was trembling. She felt defeated. Where was the "insufferable know-it-all" now? Snape was right to despise her. _Full of memorized knowledge, but I'm useless now… utterly useless_.

She began searching through the kit again, for what she did not know. Its sparse contents would be of no help. _I need something…_

_Wait, would he have…?_ She stopped. Surely a potion's master would. He was always prepared… But, of course, if he _did_ have a healing potion on his person, capable of saving himself, wouldn't he have already used it?

The buzz of questions was numbing.

Her momentary inaction brought clarity and then, in an instant, she became acutely aware of the change.

The vial's magic tug had become quite uncomfortable during her desperate search. No longer just annoying, the sensation was bordering on painful. It was if the silver chain hanging from her neck had entered her body at some point, weaving itself between her ribs. It seemed to be pulling evenly, out and away from her chest. The center point of pressure rested on the vial itself. In her months of wearing the necklace, it had never created such a feeling.

Her hands flew to the chain. Pulling it free from underneath the fabric, she half-expected it to actually slither out of her chest, slick with blood, but it emerged from her shirt's collar clean – the vile coming out last in a weighted plop against her chest… _too weighted._

So many times she had held the vile to ponder its greater purpose. The crystal's roundness was familiar, the silver filigree along its lip was familiar, and the jammed glass stopper was familiar.

It's lightness… it's _emptiness_ was familiar.

Now she was examining the vial with awe.

For the first time, it was heavy, and _full_ – of something thick and burgundy colored.

The how or why no longer mattered – her instincts told her to tug on the once immovable stopper. For the first time since it had entered her possession, the stopper gave way with a quiet hiss.

Her nostrils were overwhelmed with an earthy-metallic scent, much like Blood-Rejuvenating potion, only different in its overwhelming pungency. She had brewed the potion a few times before and instantly felt confident that this was the correct smell – it was unmistakable. However, the color and consistency told her its appearance wasn't right at all – too thick, and a few shades away from the proper plum color it should be.

"_Scent over sight"_ was a principal taught early on in Potions, as scent was a much stronger trigger for recollection, as well as it being a much more difficult attribute to mask or change. Although, during her first year introduction to this principal Professor Snape had snidely stressed that the "inexperienced twits" gracing his classroom would most likely _never_ be accomplished enough to distinguish potions by mere smell alone… much less their morning pumpkin juice from a tumbler of fire whiskey.

Despite his foul countenance, Hermione trusted Professor Snape's teachings implicitly. She also trusted herself. Six years under his stricture had taught her more than the ability to sniff her way to an appropriate beverage choice.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar scent again. _Yes, definitely an extremely pungent version of blood-rejuvenating potion._

…Still, it was hard to stake the man's life just on the proficiency of her olfactory senses. She somehow felt that Professor Snape may have taught the lesson differently if he had known his life would one day depend on a student's own faith in the principal.

Dumbledore was the deciding factor. No matter how infuriating the old man's continuing ambiguity may be, a gift from him was a safe gift. He wouldn't bequeath her a poison-conjuring vial… although, on second thought, maybe his murdered self would make an exception for Professor Snape.

She just hoped for the best. He was on the edge of death and she had already wasted enough time in her futile search to help him. No more reconsidering.

She winced again at the heat emanating from his face as her thumb gingerly tugged out his lower lip. The intimacy of the contact suddenly struck her, disturbed her, and caused her to hesitate slightly. As if to reassure the action, her hand was graced with the faintest of breaths, a silent push. The exhaled air was unnaturally warm and its moisture conjured an unexpected relaxing in her fingers.

A faltering heartbeat, then a firm decision. The tiny vial was brought to his mouth, nearly spilling, and was then tipped fully back. His head rolled to the side – apparently the potion's effects would not be instantaneous – and she sank against the wall across from him, away from the blood.

Fawkes scrutinized her tired form once more before turning to further examine the subject of their combined medicinal efforts. Hermione had always considered the avian species rather dim-witted (even the magical variety), but she would have sworn the magnificent phoenix perched near her looked expectant, his sharp eyes twinkling with knowledge. _Had Dumbledore taught him that twinkle? _

She rested her head back against the wall and joined Fawkes in watching the swirled mound of black surrounded by the eerie crimson pool.

The situation was beyond her own intervention now. For once in her life, Hermione decided to let the pieces fall as they would, and simply_ trust_ in the solution presented to her – the solution Dumbledore had left for her. _The potion must help him. _She didn't have many other options, besides.

That meant it was only a matter of waiting now, although for what she was not quite sure. A renewal of life or a sluggish march to death? She realized that again, she felt helpless… Stuck in her inaction, _waiting_.

But not for long. She couldn't wait for long. Her Gryffindor conscience, founded on loyalty and honor, was back in force.

_You've done your best._ _Now your friends need you…_

Maybe it was sheer riveting concern for the man's survival, maybe it was her emotional exhaustion, but Hermione could not immediately pick herself up. She could not indulge the nudging of her lioness to leave the shrieking shack right away – to get back to Ron and Harry.

She decided on a small, yet potentially life-altering compromise. She would give Professor Snape five minutes. He probably deserved much more from the girl who hadn't come to his aid while being attacked, but as Harry's friend and ally she didn't feel she could offer him more than that. Harry needed her. Ron needed her. It was a painful, yet simple choice.

The well-being of her friends meant more to her than Professor Snape.

So, it was with some reluctance that she decided to give the mysterious potion five minutes to take effect. And whatever the outcome, she would pack her emotions away, and bite back any regretful tears.

She would be a Gryffindor.

Live or die.

_Horcruxes… your friends need you._

Five minutes.

That was all the time she could offer.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** I hate to say it, but life has been pretty hectic lately. Selling my car, buying a new one, a funeral, a vacation, and as always work. However, as we "plow" into the upcoming winter months, I should be finding myself indoors more often and I believe I'll be more inclined to type away with some hot tea at my side. (Got to keep the thought process British) Thanks again for any reviews, insight, or greetings. But mostly, just thanks for reading and giving my writing a purpose. :) And Happy Holidays!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

True to her promise, Hermione counted down the minutes. The simplicity of the act was a comfort. She spoke softly, caressing each syllable with a silent prayer._ …forty five – one thousand… forty six – one thousand… forty seven – one thousand… _Her rhythm was constant, but the seconds still seemed to grind against the very fabric of time.

It was painstaking to wait… yet, easy at the same time – painstaking because she was now brutally aware of her prolonged absence from the battlefield but easy because she was desperate to stay and witness any effects the unknown potion may have on Professor Snape.

_It will help him. It has to._

Her eyes had remained trained on the man, as if looking away would break the gentle spell her counting seemed to cast. She wished for anything really: a twitch, a cough, a ragged breath, the flutter of his eyelids, the slightest movement to show he was affected, that she had _helped_ him in some way. That she wouldn't be leaving him to slip away… _again_.

A heavy gust forced a strand of hair across her face. She kept counting, but let her eyes dart to Fawkes. The bird's own scrutinizing gaze had left Professor Snape and was now watching the tunnel entrance – feathers completely ruffled, wings thwopping through the air. She flinched when his low grumbling call resumed, although now at a much more rapid pace than before. The sound was quite frightening on its own (forceful and threatening), but visually attached to the phoenix? She almost wanted to laugh. It was like a… bark.

_A barking bird? How silly… and yet, strangely appropriate for Dumbledore._

She was grateful to have been easily accepted into the shrieking shack by the magical creature instead of being "barked" at. Though, she wasn't quite sure why, considering she had never been personally introduced and thought phoenixes to be relatively wary around strangers. Whatever the case, it appeared whoever had decided to crawl back into the room wouldn't be as easily received.

_Harry? Ron? It took them awhile… _Her shield spell must have been stronger than expected, or they had had a difficult time deciding if they should even go after her.

"_The ever_ _brave and valiant Gryffindors… wagering the salvation of all, for the safety of one," _a dark voice mocked.

She was somehow unmoved by the return of Professor Snape's sarcasm to her mind. If anything, she agreed with the conjured voice. It _would_ be horribly upsetting… if Ron and Harry had been wasting their time worrying about her instead of the horcruxes_._ If they knew her at all, they would have given her the benefit of the doubt and forged ahead, anticipating her apparation back to the castle once she was calm and collected. Did they really think she would completely abandon them? She had been frightened, yes, but otherwise she had never given them any reason to doubt her faithfulness to their task. Quite unlike Ron… or even on occasion Harry, she had always been in this quest for the long haul. They couldn't think her the kind to give up now, in the face of finality… at the end… could they?

The phoenix was sounding rather ferocious and Hermione's inferior ears could finally understand why. The shuffling coming out of the tunnel entrance had become loud, and although muffled it was obvious that someone was cursing heavily. She dropped her counting voice and, with months of ingrained vigilance, turned her wand to the place they would soon emerge from – only to find herself blinded by light flaring up _behind_ her.

Blinking herself back into the returning darkness, she whipped around to find the new assailant, who her mind argued, _shouldn't_ be there.

_I checked the room…Unless they apparated in. _

But there was no one, except for the still immobile Professor Snape and…

Silence.

The dusty perch of a chair gave no evidence of him ever being there at all. Not even a feather was suspended in the air like those often left by a departing owl. _His precious feathers only fall when he decides._

She briefly wondered if the phoenix had been an illusion brought about by trauma… But no, it stood to reason and experience that she was _not_ one to let her faculties escape her to the point of hallucination. It made more sense if the light had come from Fawkes himself. A corner of her mind pushed the piece of information forward. Yes, Harry had once mentioned the phoenix's spectacular means of disapparation.

"_Like fire, but a lot brighter." _he had said.

Fawkes had been a calming presence, though she only now noticed the change in his absence. Vulnerability struck her. Why did he leave? _Phoenixes don't scare quite that easily… do they?_

The shuffling noise returned to focus and the thought was forgotten. She aimed her wand at the tunnel again, hoping that Fawkes didn't have good reason to leave – that she wouldn't be encountering someone _dangerous _instead of her friends.

Finally, a petulant tuft of red hair peeked out into the dim light of the room. He had brandished his wand and was squinting intently into the space. A soft exhale escaped Hermione's lips.

"_Ron._" she spoke.

He gasped loudly, eyes flying to her position in shadow. "Hermione, _blimey_, didn't see you over there…" He tried to sound undaunted but failed miserably. She held back a smirk.

Still looking around cautiously, he stood and stumbled to her side of the room. "Started to think you may have gone already when I didn't find you straight away…You OK now? Gave me a right scare in that _bloody_ tunnel." He illuminated his wand and quickly examined her appearance (which she was sure must be frightful). He frowned. "Though you know I don't blame you, right? …For being scared?"

Normally, she would have been annoyed to have her weaknesses verbalized, (especially after Ron's own little display of "courage") but he spoke so gently her anger was temporarily forgotten.

Letting go of all restraint, she was in his arms in two strides, burying herself into his familiar scent. He was ridged for a moment but then let his arms rest loosely around her back. It was a strange position for her, a relatively new position, but also a _needed_ position at the moment. His solid, receptive presence helped ground her, recharge her. She could almost forget where they were, what they were fighting… slip back into her imaginary forest… forget the pain.

The lioness chided. _The pain can give you focus… Don't numb yourself yet._

She pulled back from the embrace. "Harry, where's Harry?" She searched his eyes, hoping at least one of them was wise enough to continue the horcrux-hunt without her.

He huffed and looked away. "Guess back at the castle by now. I don't know."

Fear bubbled up. His tone was too… _biting_. She tried to sound calm - more for her own benefit than Ron's.

"What do you mean you _don't_ know?"

He still held onto her shoulders but was looking at the floor, eyes narrowed.

"I don't know if you _noticed_ back there, but Harry wasn't in his right mind. Bloody hell 'Mione, he tried to _stun_ you! He was being a right foul git… And well, we had a few words and then I just… let him go on so I could find you."

_To find… me?_ …_Me?_

The warmth of that sentiment was almost enough to make her ignore the underlying outrage… almost.

Her mind was set ablaze. How could he let Harry go on alone? Harry needed help, protection, someone there to stop rash decisions!

"_Ronald_," she growled while whacking his chest. "You should have gone with him! You know I would have come back to find you both and help… In the tunnel, I was just… _scared_," The word tasted sour on her tongue. "And I couldn't compose myself to safely disapparate at the time."

Ron kept his arms up incase she tried to assault him again, but instead, she composed herself by straightening up and evening out her tone with a trace of authority. "Harry needs us now. He needs _you_."

_Hypocrite… you abandoned him firssst…_ She managed to silence the hiss and continued.

"You should have gone on to help him instead of me..." Her gaze was steady, but her voice wavered faintly. "Harry's safety, his life… it's more important than I am." The last wasn't a first time realization. She said it like it was a fact she had read deep in the confines of _Hogwarts: A History_.

Ron stepped away, his expression changing to pure disgust. "I don't care if Harry is supposed to kill Voldemort, or that he's the "_chosen one_"… he's my friend, but he is _NOT_ more important than…" His voice faded as his gaze snapped to the floor.

Her heart constricted. Confusion, then heated anticipation. Would he finally speak his emotions?

_You already proved you care by coming here to find me… Say it! Say that I'm important to you._

Uncertainty marred Ron's freckled face for an instant as he searched her features. She willed the words to appear there on her pale flesh. If she could just _blush_ them into existence, all he would need to do was read. Simple enough – as simple as it could get for him, really. But her face was as cryptic to Ron as an Ancient Runes text.

He finished the sentence weakly, "…more important than anyone else."

She only allowed the twinge of disappointment to flare for a moment before smothering it with cool indifference. And true to his oblivious nature, Ron seemed to interpret her coolness as disagreement. His agitation grew as he started waving both hands through the air defensively.

"You're sounding like him, 'Mione. He's not in his right mind! I mean, he was throwing spells at you like he'd gone completely _mental_! …And when I told him I was going after you, he said he wouldn't help me; said we couldn't _waste_ time trying to find you."

Even though Harry only garnered platonic feelings_, _the new information somehow stung _more _than Ron's romantic avoidance. She tried to wipe her face of all emotion but was forced to turn away.

The words were cruel, yet perfectly clear – a simple situation when stripped of all emotional attachment. Harry was right. They were running out of time, and it couldn't be wasted rescuing a claustrophobic girl. She could deal with her hurt feelings later, but for the time being she had to logically agree. She only hoped that Harry's decision would pay off with the finding of another horcrux.

Ron was deep in his own thoughts. He scoffed, "Like it would be a _waste_ to try and help a friend… and blimey, the only one of us who's actually smart enough to find the last horcruxes! …I'm worried about him 'Mione… the kind of state he's in – thinking thoughts like that!"

Her voice was small and far-away, as if Ron's ranting hadn't completely registered. "I am too. We need to find him…"

Ron stared at her back. She could _feel_ the heavy burn of his impatient eyes, waiting for her to say more, for her to lead him on as she had done so many times before. But what else was there to say at a time like this? Where should she even start? There were too many things to worry about, to over analyze, to strategize for – and all of the outcomes could potentially end in disaster. Horrible, life-threatening, world-altering, never-see-your-friends-and-family-again… _disasters_.

_If Harry dies because we aren't there to help him… _

The damp, earthen tunnel walls of desperation were closing in again. A ragged breath escaped her.

The lioness nudged. _You are a Gryffindor. No pain is too large. No challenge is too great. Your heart can manage. _

No challenge is too great… your heart can manage.

A difficult concept to swallow (considering all the pain and loss she knew awaited her on the battlefield), but it would have to do. With only those thoughts, she assembled the remnants of her courage before moving to face Ron again. He accepted her return into their present reality by nodding slowly and then furrowing his brow, appearing to pull together his own determination. Leadership didn't really suit him but in the wake of Hermione's puzzling, quiet inaction he was forced to make the call.

"Right then… Gates are prob'ly still swarming with _them_– we should make a try for the edge of the forest. Near Hagrid's might work." He took her arm, more gently than before, and waited with eyes tightly shut for the twisting suction of disapparation.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

The room, the shrieking shack, the blood pool, her promise of time… The underlying regret and hope were tumbling back into focus – a desperate pull to _stay_ fighting against the logical push to _go_. It was completely irrational; she felt sane enough to make that realization. Completely, and unequivocally irrational. Harry needed them but she couldn't disapparate. Couldn't bring herself to _leave_. Not yet. Not before she knew…

_Professor Snape…_ _Has the potion helped him?_

Ron's roused from waiting as she tugged away. "What are you–"

"Just let me check something." She said quickly.

There was no hesitation this time, but the slick blood pool still made her grimace. She crouched down and fingers, less timid than before, pressed into the man's exposed neck.

Ron looked on awestruck. "What the… Mione, why are you touching–"

"I'm checking Professor Snape's pulse. Now please be quiet for a minute." Her concentration faded away from Ron, though he had begun to protest her actions rather loudly.

One contact point – just finger tips to silken scars – but it was enough to blur the surroundings. "Tunnel vision" seemed the wrong term, considering the constricting terror it represented for her… no, this contact was more like a pleasant refocusing. _I wonder if all healers experience this…_

Though he still remained unconscious, his burning temperature had subsided, his perspiration had reduced, his breathing had strengthened, and his pulse _…thump… thump… thump…_ that steady undulation of blood now mimicked her earlier counting voice. His skin's striking paleness was even fading into a warmer hue.

_Yes…_

Her chin dropped to her chest, eyes closing, relishing the feeling of that constant thud beneath her touch – the proof that she hadn't completely failed the man. Her bargain – Dumbledore's gift – had been worth the chance. With some reluctance, she drew her fingers away.

Her ears could register Ron's yelling again. "…no time for this _rubbish_!"

It was easier to control her traitorous joy with an angry Weasley there to dampen it.

"It's _not_ rubbish, Ron. Fawkes was here. The tears he shed for Professor Snape completely sealed his neck wounds… He has a strong pulse now."

"_Fawkes_? _What_ – no, _how_… _Why_ would that bloody _bird_ want to help _Snape?_" His mouth was gaping, unable to form another question, but then realization flashed in his eyes. He retaliated with a wagging finger, "That wouldn't matter anyway! Snape is_ dead_!"

She was still assessing the shadowy man at her feet."No, he somehow _didn't_ die. Fawkes was here before I arrived. I'm not sure _why_ he came, but what's important is that Professor Snape may survive because of his help._" _

_Perhaps it's better to leave out your own potion-administering heroics for now, _she reasoned.

"Though, the phoenix tears won't matter if he stays here..." she mused quietly enough for Ron to miss.

_It would be wrong to leave him without some safety, some protection. What if Voldemort comes back?_

Ron had scrunched up his face even further, looking murderous.

"_Important_? 'Mione, house elves are one thing, but don't act like you really care about what happens to that – that, _death eater_." he seethed. "And phoenix tears or not, he is still _DEAD_! We watched him _DIE_. I mean for the love of Merlin, just _look_ at him!" He pointed accusingly at the motionless man.

She tried to reign in the frustration. Inside, she had already been fighting a personal morality battle_. _The addition of Ron's own ideology was only making the clashing struggle more difficult. His diehard, anti-Snape beliefs were threatening to swell over her barriers and drown the sensitive, humanistic reasoning she had constructed so carefully. …And his ignorance was bordering on pure stupidity.

"_He's dead!"?_ _Well really, rubbish indeed! Ronald Weasley: the king of assumption – even when the living, breathing truth is only inches in front of him!_

She mustered a glare dangerous enough to rival one from his mother. "_Ronald Weasley_, you can't _honestly_ feel that way! Professor Snape is still a living, breathing human being just like you and I – death eater or not! To disregard his life, to act like it means nothing, would make us just like _them_. Can't you see that's the separation? They don't care about people! To them, I am nothing. My parents are nothing. My muggle friends are nothing. To them, I am just a worthless mudblood. …So don't you dare judge this man! Don't you dare judge him like others have chosen to judge me since the day I was born a muggle." She paused to look away and suck back the stray tears. Why did it hurt so much to say those words when the same sentiments had been spoken to her for years by numerous pure-blooded supremacists?

Her hands were fists before she dramatically pointed at Snape. "And please, would _you_ just look at him! It is obvious that he most certainly is _not_ dead, his pulse can attest to that…" She sighed deeply and let her gaze become unfocused with thought. "Although, I won't pretend to understand exactly _how_ he managed to survive… I watched him die too, you know."

He had growled at the comparison of Snape's life to theirs and at her use of self-degradation, but her final telling-off seemed to calm Ron slightly. He ran a hand through his ginger mane, huffed loudly, and then crossed his arms. He began looking at Snape with more curiosity than before and even bent over to investigate, very nearly prodding the man's body with his lit wand.

"Do you see now?" she calmly interjected.

The shallow rise and fall of the Professor's chest was undeniable – even for Ron. A kind of spiteful comprehension formed behind his eyes.

"Fine. Alright. He's alive. A living, breathing person again, _just like us_. Isn't that just _lovely_? The greasy git has a second chance at life so he can murder more innocents! That make you happy 'Mione?" he scowled.

She absorbed the stinging words. Not the _exact _reaction she had hoped for, but it was to be expected. It would take much more than one heated argument for Ron to approve of the dying man's miraculous recovery… _And honestly Hermione,_ _how many people would be happy to see Professor Snape still alive?_ Even Voldemort had tried to murder his faithful follower…

But the more important question was: Did Ron's feelings on the subject really matter that much to her – enough to just leave their weakened Professor behind without any further regrets? It had been an easy choice to fight for the independence of house elves but this was a whole different boggart, and now that she was faced with the problem she wasn't so sure of her answer. The situation had become so twisted, so slippery…

_When did a matter of helping another turn into a choice that could affect your friend's view of you? And shouldn't a fellow Gryffindor admire my desire to be brave and save a man, no matter which house or side that man may claim as his own?_

Ron sighed loudly and rather impolitely, waking her from thought. He _hated_ to be ignored, perhaps even more than he hated Professor Snape. She had long ago learned to tolerate the immature fault - after meeting his family it was easy to imagine him being ignored quite often in such a large household.

He spoke scornfully, as if twisting a knife. "Well? Are you going to apparate us back now 'Mione, or should I make a go of it myself?"

Her stomach jumped unpleasantly. The last time Ron had attempted to apparate by himself had been horrifying. She couldn't handle seeing his body in such bloody agony again… it was the reason she had insisted that he side-along with her until he was properly trained again. He didn't like being babied, but he also couldn't argue his way around her solid, if somewhat manic reasoning.

So, the fact that he would suggest something that had obviously brought her so much worry and so much pain before… simply as a means to frighten or anger her?

It was simply uncalled for… and for Ron, it unfortunately became the answer to all her flaming self-doubt and questions. Her next move felt justified – slightly spiteful, but justified.

_If you can't care about my feelings Ronald Weasley, then I will have to put aside your own Snape-hating agenda for the moment._

But then, how to accomplish her own Snape-_saving_ agenda? Angry outbursts were one thing. She could battle Ron all day with that form of brutish Gryffindor tact. It wouldn't work though. She couldn't push him or even reason with him about this problem.

A frizzled curl fell into her face as she took in Professor Snape once more – still only shallow breathing, still silhouetted in blood. The man looked quite peaceful. His raven hair fanned out to caress the stark angles of his face, taming and softening those lines with a silky hold. The harsh, manipulative Slytherin looked so–

A sly hiss. _Ahhh... Now you are finally thinking little lioness… _

Yes, of course! Dark, _Slytherin_ inspiration… A different way of fighting, a different way of thinking, a different way of winning, of doing what she felt was truly right– whether or not Ron approved later on.

To _coerce_, oh… the very word felt snake-like on her tongue.

But she was doing it again – becoming so caught up in her tumultuous thought process that Ron was reddening from her disregard. And she was wasting time needed by Harry. She heaved a breath, stood to her full height (still by Snape's side) and chased away any telling anger from her countenance.

"I'm sorry Ron, but no. As we've discussed before, I don't think you should try apparating again – especially not when you're so angry with me. I've wasted too much time helping Professor Snape, you're right… I didn't mean to upset you." The apologetic smile, though forced and fake, came easily. It was alarmingly easy. Hermione Granger did not _lie_ about her feelings… she wore them plainly on her sleeve. She was unsure if her Gryffindor palate could actually handle something as distasteful as deceit.

Ron appeared confused by her change as well, cocking his head slightly. She rushed on before he could figure it out, "Please, let me apparate us. I'm ready now." Her arm was suspended as an offering of truce, and for Ron, as a concession of defeat.

Of course, he decided to take on an infuriating air of smugness and she had to check her real emotions again, pull them in and conceal them. At least she had some practice in stifling fury - often at the words of Ron himself.

He stepped closer, looking between her and the blood pool, a silent request for her to come closer to him etched in his eyes. However, that wasn't part of her quickly forming plan, and so she arched her brows as a refusal to move. The small bit of defiance didn't upset him – Instead it was Hermione-like enough to reassure him that she was truly herself. He looked down to hide a small grin (which only irritated her further) and with a sickening sloshing noise, came to stand at her side.

His fingers closed around her arm, and their eyes met.

"Near Hagrids hut, close to the forest." he urged. His blue gaze slipped away, blond lashes sweeping downward into a quiet form of trust.

_This is it… You've imagined it before. Don't turn back now…_

"Right." she nodded, afraid to say more. She quickly pulled him into a tight embrace – the closest they had ever shared, and his eyes flew open. He was quite heavy, she hadn't considered that part, but the surprise of the intimate attack acted in her favor. She let her lips graze his earlobe, felt him recoil slightly, and then immediately regretted following the advice of pubescent Gryffindor females. _Still, it would be_ _worse to abandon your plan now from mere embarrassment, _she admonished.

"Oy 'Mione! What are you doing?" he garbled.

Cheeks starting to flame instantly, she used her previous anger to push forward. With one arm still clutching the flabbergasted Ron, she reached with the other towards the floor, towards the man…

Their combined momentum was enough. Ron staggered over from the awkward position, trying to regain balance, but her finger tips were there already. And then her hand was there, desperately taking hold of the rough, black fabric, and then finally Snape's shoulder. Her nails sunk deep into his flesh – that strong pulse thudding under her touch. It wasn't the best hold, but she had managed a side-along with much less before.

There was a snarl. She couldn't tell if it came from Ron, or from her, or from the more frightening alternative, because they were already twisting. Already past mid-fall, escaping the pull of gravity and the bloody floor, she spun them away.

Whether towards safety or towards further damnation, she was unsure.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** __Up until now, this story has been kind of slow-moving. (I wanted to flesh out all of the big emotions Hermione and Ron were feeling, and I felt like this pacing was the best way to do that) But after this chapter everything will be speeding up a bit. We will still be able to feel and hear whatever Hermione is thinking, but just not quite so much. There should be more dialogue and action, versus heavy introspection on her part. And I am still debating another point... so I'll ask you guys. Should Snape have his own point of view in this story? I originally planned to just to write from Hermione's perspective, but sometimes I wonder... Any yays or nays to this idea? _

_As always, thank you soooo much for reviewing and for just reading in general. :)_

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><p>Despite Ron's urging, they did not apparate near the Forbidden Forest or near the charred remains of Hagrid's hut. They weren't even <em>close<em> to Hogwarts.

The crack of their apparation echoed in the empty kitchen. Silence reigned over the rest of the house. Hermione stood motionless for a moment, feeling out the intricate wards she had constructed months ago with the help of Remus. His lesson had been brief, though very thorough, and proved more dependent on her natural abilities than the information he could supply. It was the connection to her magic, Remus had explained, which was most important – not just her knowledge on the subject.

Luckily, she had mastered the craft quickly and now that the magic surrounded her again the home's protective barriers almost hummed in her presence… as if _talking_ to her. She took in the signals and felt them all individually, ward by ward.

A deep sigh. Nothing had changed – all was intact. They were safe.

It was only then that she disentangled herself from a perplexed Ron and released Professor Snape. Both men slumped away from her – Snape to the cold tile floor, and Ron into a mixture of dumb disbelief and something murkier. His face stopped her, held her and pierced her all at once. She had only seen that look directed at her once before (though not on Ron's face) and she was now too frightened to examine it fully… to give it real consideration.

He took a step towards her, never breaking eye contact. Nervous warmth bloomed across her skin. She panicked. _This was what you wanted? Right? Dreamed of even, for a time?_ At one point she was sure she had been desperate for it – to see _that_ look on his face, reserved just for her, not some blithering bimbo with a propensity for ridiculous endearments…

That look of _need_.

But at this moment, in the darkness of her parent's cold, evacuated house that look just felt so… _wrong_.

She was about to stop him, to gently explain away her foolish Slytherin actions, ask him to excuse her quick change of mind, but then he finally seemed to remember himself. He stopped of his own accord.

His eyes first met the checkered wall behind her and then he swung around, inspecting the dim room. "Where are we?" he wailed. A wide, paned window was situated over the sink to their left. Outside street lamps cast their shadows onto a butcher-block counter at the center of the room.

"My parent's house." She said quietly, turning her back on him to regain some composure and to avoid any apathetic looks. Ron could be cruel, but he never managed to discount her family. How he could still do that, with the fresh burden of his brother's death… she wasn't sure. Sometimes she almost wished he _wouldn't_ comfort her so that during her weakest moments she could feel less dependent on him.

But it came, as it always did, and halted her. She watched through her frizzled curls as his shadow hand bridged the gap between them to lightly clasp her shoulder. "'Mione…" he pressed gently. "Why here? We need to be back at the castle…"

His compassion was a trigger. It awoke all other senses from the hazy covering she had decidedly put them under before apparating. Ron's touch somehow allowed her to feel again… first the pitted, worn pine of countertop beneath her palms… and then she could smell_… _that faint trace of the lemony disinfectant her mother favored.

The kitchen, her parent's home… _empty_.

The jolt of longing echoed to the core of her being. She had effectively pushed her parents out of her mind while on the run but it was now nearing a year since she has last seen them settled into their new, concocted Australian lives.

She wasn't prepared for the easy flood of memories. They materialized so perfectly in the place of their original occurrence. The large family Christmases, dinner and a board game nights, the ritualistic Sunday breakfasts... She could _see_ her parents sitting there at the table. Her father would be scanning a medical journal over a cup of tea while her mother sat across from him, dissecting a slice of toast with long, delicate fingers. They would smile and greet her in unison as she entered the room.

_Is it possible to occlude one's own memories from oneself? _She had wondered before, but could never bring herself to ask the question. The knowledge wasn't worth exposing that bit of inner weakness to any of the Order members.

_Others have memories much more sufferable than your own and they cope just fine. At least your family is still alive…_

_Harry..._

His face flashed through the cloud of recollections and whipped her back into the present. She blinked rapidly and turned to the task at hand, determined to waste no more time. She magically swept aside cutlery and jars from the counter's work space.

Her voice was calculated and even. "We will go back there, in less than a few minutes, but not until we leave him well and safe." She could hear how insane it sounded as the words left her, but she would stand by her decision. Bringing him here, even without Ron's consent – to safety and to the chance for further healing – felt so _right_ on a deeper, Gryffindor level.

_"How ironic that you choose… deception and seduction… weapons fitting of a Slytherin, as a means to buttress the ideologies of Godric Gryffindor. My, my, the lengths you would go to to uphold justice… Your house's founder would be most proud, Miss Granger." _The derision played across her mind, flitting playfully and stabbing in equal tandem. She felt she was truly going barmy. The strangely fabricated snippets of Snape needed to cease before she changed her mind and_ did _decide to leave the blasted man helpless.

Ron seemed to be in a perpetual state of confusion today. He interjected, "_Him_, what are you talking about?"

She chanced a sideways glance at the man at Ron's feet. _How has he not noticed Professor Snape yet? Was my advance… was my… seducing… really so distracting? _

Ron followed her eyes and looked down quickly. The cold, rumpled heap of their professor looked even more pitiful and out of place against the backdrop of muggle furnishings. His pale cheek was turned away from them, resting against the floor.

Ron shook his head in disbelief, while flexing his fingers. It was like watching a storm roll in: his astonishment the thick cloud bank gathering above her; his fury the crackling shudder of electricity connecting with earth. Months had passed since she last saw it, and it was still enough to make her flinch.

"NO!" he roared, "We are not wasting any more time on _HIM_! Get us back to Hogwarts NOW!" He bellowed while taking her arm roughly.

She tried to shrug away but he grabbed her other arm, clamping both appendages to her sides. She gasped at his roughness. He had never hurt her, or grabbed her in such a way. She struggled lamely for a moment, but his muscled body held her still. And it was then that he caught her eyes and she could finally see. Her mistakes were etched there… She could finally understand. His stare seized her completely; it was first questioning, then evolving and twisting into something else, with a flicker of despise, maybe even hate…

Her decision to aid Professor Snape had affected him more severely than she would have ever expected. It was beyond him hating the man lying helpless at his feet, or him wanting to return to the castle quickly. He understood her deception now… how she had used her body as a ploy to drag Snape along with them. Like Caesar searching the eyes of Brutus, he was searching her face with so much desperation. He felt _betrayed_.

"We aren't helping him." he said fiercely. "We are leaving _now_." When he had learned to command and demean with the same breath, she was unsure. She only knew one other man who could yield such a cruel talent.

She tried to distance herself from his face which was only inches from her own. Should she just give in to him? He was frankly starting to scare her… _But, no, this is Ron_, she reminded herself. He wouldn't hurt her. He was furious _yes_, but that was all part of his process – although perhaps it was a different process than any she'd ever seen before – and she couldn't allow herself to bend so easily on the issue of a man's life. Ron had tried ordering her around many, many times before and she had always handled it quite well with stubborn refusal and sound logic. Why back down now? Besides, at the very most, she only needed a minute to help Professor Snape… if Ron would release her.

"Let me go." she asked quietly, her amber gaze hardening to match his.

"_NO_! You are going to take us back to the castle, where we are supposed to be because I will NOT help him, whatever the bloody hell you've decided that entails!"

"Let me go so I can put him on the counter and leave him potions. That's all I–"

He shook her. "For fucks sake Hermione, I will NOT waste time here when my family could be fighting without me! TAKE US BACK NOW OR I SWEAR I WILL APPARATE ON MY OWN!"

His chest heaved unnaturally. His steely eyes flickered across the features of her face, waiting for some change, some form of consent on her part. For just a second she thought she saw those blue pools begin to glaze but then he was blinking rapidly and the threat of tears was gone. Her heart broke. Amidst the pulsating wake of anger, she saw his pain as clear as she could hear the pounding beneath his chest. Her small, hesitant hand came up to rest there, above the wildness of his heart.

She didn't know when it had happened, but somehow her decision to help Professor Snape had turned into a choice which would affect all other aspects of her life. It was a choice she could either stick by, or let crumble in the face of Ron's anger and pain.

Did she regret her choices so far? It felt an equal mixture of both yes and no at the moment… _Would_ she regret it? That was the more important question…

_One more act… and that's it little lioness! Anything more will be too much for your friend to bare,_ her Gryffindor conscious growled.

She tried to sound strong and confident, but faltered slightly. A man near tears always had a way of sobering her, even in the most furious of arguments. She knew her words would pierce him. They would somehow pierce her as well – the difficulty of her choice making the statement sound far way and unrelated to herself.

"I am going to help him. I know it doesn't make sense, but I have to. Now please Ronald, let me go." She closed her eyes, anticipating an explosion of emotion.

His features blazed for a moment, still searching her face, but then he released her roughly as if she had burned him. He balled his fist and closed his eyes as well. She opened hers to assess him.

"Alright then, I'm leaving." he said bluntly, appearing to try and hold back from saying anything more. He was almost shaking.

She second guessed herself perhaps a hundred times, maybe even a thousand within the space of seconds as she watched him furrow his brow in concentration.

_I should just take us… no, help Snape… no GO! …help Snape… apparate us both… stay and help!_

Her previous fears resurfaced watching him prepare to apparate. The memory of his bloody, splinched self flashed before her like a beacon of danger. Her firm resolve was shattered, and for once she relinquished to Ron, and it did nothing to distress her ego. She would tell him he had won this fight for all of eternity, if he would just stay standing there long enough for her to help Snape and then let her spin them both away.

"No please, please! Just wait for me!" she sobbed desperately. "Just let me leave him this. And that will be it – I promise. That will be it." She spoke in a rush while pulling the crystal vile out from her shirt.

Ron kept his fists balled, but at least opened his eyes to watch her. She wouldn't wait for his consent.

She immediately abandoned all other ideas of comfort, her fingers fumbling with the filigree stopper. Levitating Professor Snape onto the counter top to perform further diagnostic charms was out of the question. He wouldn't receive a conjured blanket or even a warming spell, and she wouldn't have time to siphon away the grotesque amount of blood from his sopping garments. Instead, she would only leave him with the most important thing, the thing that would aid him the very most: a conjured potion from the vile.

In the light she could see its fullness again, although this time the mystery potion appeared less viscous, and was a bluish color. She didn't have a solid idea how the magical vial operated but was willing to deduce that only a _needed_ potion would be supplied to the necklace's wearer. After all, what were the chances that out of thousands of potions in existence, the one form of blood-replenisher needed by Professor Snape would have filled the vile before?

Her left hand held the opened potion as her wand hand summoned an empty vial from her bag. Hours of bottling with practiced hands meant next to nothing now, as her fingers quaked, dripping a small amount of potion onto her bloody, ripped nailbed. It cooled the wound instantly, and although the sensation felt strange, it was better than the throbbing pain present there before.

_Well, that's a good sign…_

Ron had known of the crystal vile necklace for quite some time – had even offered to smash it for a frustrated Hermione after she had ranted on and on about how daft it was of Dumbledore to bequeath her something without at_ least_ hinting at its purpose. He was therefore slightly curious, despite the emotions still roiling within him, as to how the vial around her neck had finally started to be of use.

"When'd it start doing that?" he spat viciously while looking down on her. He narrowed his eyes when she cradled Snape's head to slip the bluish potion into his mouth. She poured directly from the filigree vile, and once it had emptied, she pushed the second vile she had filled into one of his hands, closing his blood-stained fingers over it. She could only hope he would wake soon and consume the rest..._ Put your own smelling principles to use Professor..._

She stood up briskly and found his eyes. "There, I'm done." She took one last sideways look at Snape, trying to hide the small bit of traitorous longing rumbling deep within herself, and then inwardly prayed for his revival. "I'll explain _this_ later." She added hastily before pushing the dangling crystal vial back into her shirt.

Ron remained stiff, grimacing, and immovable as she grasped both of his biceps tightly. The whisper of her breath against his chest barely reached his ears as she twisted them both away into blackness.

"_Thank you for waiting…"_


End file.
